


Can't Keep My Pants Off Of You

by Nny



Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22707283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: "Are those my pants?"
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: 2020 Valentine's Requests [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633162
Comments: 22
Kudos: 208





	Can't Keep My Pants Off Of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewaythatwerust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/gifts).



> For thewaythatwerust, written at the request of an anonymous admirer.
> 
> With huge thanks (and endless curses) to kangofu_cb for the title.

"Are those my pants?" 

Bucky spun around, grabbing a knife from the block on the counter and holding it tight, white-knuckled. The guy in the doorway made a pretence at holding his hands up, more of a wave really, and wandered past Bucky to the coffeemaker without any more fanfare than that. 

"I - don't know," Bucky said, cautious, and put the knife down on the counter but kept his hand on it, ready. "Maybe? Steve said I could wear what I found, and they looked clean." 

"Oh, yeah, probably not then." 

The guy scooted the mug he'd filled along the counter with one finger, occasionally hissing and switching them when the ceramic got too hot. Eventually he managed to get it close enough to the fridge that he seemed satisfied, pulling open the enormous door with a satisfied hum. 

Bucky carefully slid the knife back into the knife block. The complete lack of concern was pretty reassuring, after all. 

The guy emerged from the fridge with a pizza slice hanging out of his mouth, and he set his back to the counter and crossed his legs at the ankle, resting his elbows on the polished granite and regarding Bucky thoughtfully. He was a good six inches taller than Bucky, so there was a lot of him to sprawl. 

"Bucky, right?" At Bucky's nod, he bit off a piece of the pizza and dropped it on the counter behind him, then held out his hand. "Hey, I'm Clint." 

There was a smear of tomato sauce on the knuckle of his thumb. Bucky eyed him for a moment, shrugged, and shook. 

To go with the whole long length of him, the bandaged bicep and the tousled hair, Clint had big hands, long fingers with plenty of calluses; Bucky felt a spark of something unfamiliar at the gentle scrape of Clint's rough skin. 

"It's good to meet you," Clint said, and he was wearing a wide-open smile. The honest welcome in his face was a lot to take, and Bucky was about to pull away when Clint continued. "Even if you are a no-good pants thief," he said, and Bucky was startled into a grin. 

*

"Are those my pants?" Clint said, and the smirk Bucky shot him - amused with more than a hint of evil mischief, a look that would've been inconceivable just a couple of months before - sent a startling flash of heat into his gut, coiling and settling in there. 

"Bold of you to assume," Bucky said, "that you have pants to wear," and his cackling followed along behind him as Clint ran down the hall, swinging around the door frame to find that his apartment had been turned into some kinda low-class art gallery. 

Every single pair of pants he owned was superglued to the walls around his living room, each one surrounded by cheap offcuts of wood making up a frame and - now he looked closer - each with its own title plaque and label, a typed description that had him helplessly snorting as he read his way around the room. He looked over, at one point, to see Bucky leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and a smile curling his lips. 

"This is about the arm thing?" Clint asked, and Bucky snorted. 

"Obviously it's about the arm thing," he said; the arm thing had involved chalk paint and fridge magnets and laughter and vows of revenge. 

And maybe it was a weird time for Clint to realise that he was falling in love - when reading about how the hole in the ass of his jeans represents the shortcomings of humanity as environmental stewards - but what in the hell else was he ever supposed to do?

*

It was the kind of night - gusty and wild - that called for hooded sweaters and thick socks even though the environmental controls never let the temperature drop inside. Bucky stirred cocoa powder into the milk on the stove, waiting until it was just roiling before pouring it into a pair of mugs. 

The TV was flickering, the only light in the room aside from the reflected radiance from the kitchen. All the other Avengers were off Avenging, but Clint had fallen wrong and the doctors had threatened him with physio unless he rested his wrapped ankle for at least the next week. 

The reflected TV light did good things for his profile, picking out the curve of his cheekbone, the length of his eyelashes; glinting silver off the stubble he hadn't gotten around to shaving for the last few days. Bucky handed him a mug and sat himself down on the couch next to him, even with an expanse left over where they were not. 

"Hey," Clint whispered, and Bucky turned to find him grinning, his eyes shadowed and difficult to read. "Hey, are those my pants?"

"Someday you're gonna realise," Bucky said, "that they're never your pants." 

"Yeah." Clint tugged on a loose thread at Bucky's knee, his fingers warm through the fabric. "You see the issue, here?" 

Bucky swallowed, hard, and put down his mug, 'cos it turned out the shadows were hiding promises that Bucky sure as hell wanted him to keep. 

*

Clint stretched into waking, a smile already on his face. The other side of the bed was empty but still carrying a little warmth, and he rolled over to press his face into the pillow for a second before he forced himself upright, snatching a clean pair of boxers out of his drawer. 

Romantic movies always had this moment with sizzling bacon, come-hither grins; Clint nearly got stabbed when he made a grab for the coffee pot, and he settled for draping himself over Bucky's back while he waited for the second brew. 

There were marks on Bucky's neck, just below where his mouth was resting, and Clint ducked down to press his lips to them, sliding his hands down to Bucky's hips. The sweatpants he was wearing were worn and threadbare and ready to give up the ghost, and Clint plucked at the string holding them up. 

"Fuck," he said, helpless and warm, "I love it when you wear my pants." 


End file.
